


Bitter Irony

by Skullharvester



Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [2]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Bard - Freeform, Dominance, Love/Hate, M/M, Poet - Freeform, Tiefling, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullharvester/pseuds/Skullharvester
Summary: When Cazador was the master of his own destiny, he fancied himself a dignified creature of the night with refined tastes and a keen intellect.  So then, how was he so foolish as to find himself entangled with the most uncouth tiefling he ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with?  How the mighty have fallen.
Relationships: Cazador (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120211
Kudos: 3





	Bitter Irony

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy and have fun!
> 
> If you liked this tale, please drop me a kudos and/or a comment to let me know if you'd like to see more!
> 
> Thank you, and have a wonderful night!

* * *

* * *

Never, never did Cazador imagine for a second that he would _ever_ willingly free his most prized vampire spawn: Astarion. Nor did he imagine that he would be repaying Astarion for all the ills done to him by aiding in the quest to cure him of the mind flayer parasite lingering in his brain. Neither were his choice, exactly. Technically he _did_ have a choice, but the alternative option was even less desirable: True death. And why would he ever pick _that?_

Even more bizarre were the circumstances under which he was given such an ultimatum. His lair had been invaded by a group of adventurers that Astarion had apparently gathered to protect himself since his escape. Their original plan was to simply kill Cazador and be rid of him, but one member of Astarion’s crew saw the potential in having _two_ full-fledged vampires on hand as opposed to just one. And bafflingly, that man was none other than an opera singer that Cazador used to regularly watch perform on stage at the theater. 

The most ironic part in all that? The man was a tiefling who frequently played the role of a cambion in his performances—beings known to make devilish deals with desperate individuals when they were at their most vulnerable. Cazador was quite desperate at the time he’d made the agreement to free Astarion and serve their group in exchange for the _possibility_ of freedom once they were rescued from their infestation; he was on the brink of death when he was discovered by the tiefling while hiding away from the party hunting after him.

It was so reminiscent of the night when Cazador found Astarion bleeding to death in the streets of Baldur’s Gate and coerced him into agreeing to become his vampire spawn willingly two centuries ago.

Cazador loved poetic justice to the extent that he admittedly found a bitter amusement in his own situation. Perhaps the humiliation brought on by his unexpected defeat drove him mad, assuming that he wasn’t already there to begin with for a while now.

He grew to resent the tiefling who put him in this position, making him almost wish that he’d chosen death instead. Dobrogost was a much more vulgar and banal man than he would have guessed him to be when he was out of character, engaging in no façade. It was strange to think that once, Cazador wrote him anonymous letters praising the passion and skill in his acting and singing, only to one day finally meet the man behind the curtain and have his admiration turn to conflicted contempt.

Dobrogost was pompous and lecherous—somehow viler than anything he’d ever portrayed on stage. Completely unprovoked, when they’d be traveling along the road with the rest of their group, the massive tiefling would lean down to whisper uncouth and childish limericks to Cazador or grope his backside and make some lewd comment about his appearance. He did things like this with some of the others in their party as well, but he’d become particularly fond of pestering Cazador in this way, taking great pleasure in the way the former vampire lord would react with venom and vitriol. 

Yet, for all his posturing and threats, deep down, Cazador knew he could do nothing to dissuade Dobrogost. Astarion reveled in seeing his former master suffer in any capacity, and if Cazador attacked the bard outside of slapping away his curious hands, there was no doubt that Astarion would use it as an excuse to slay him. Astarion’s party would surely come to his aid as well, and Cazador be put on death’s doorstep once again without a chance of being spared a second time.

With few other outlets to channel his anger, Cazador took to writing poetry, as he often did to try and quell the beast within him, but as it turned out, it was true that hatred was the most intense emotion of them all. His mind, and therefore the subject matter of his work, often lingered on the tiefling that vexed him even more so now than Astarion. Astarion, shockingly, was moving on from his woes emotionally, even with Cazador still being very present. He was free in more than one sense now, while Cazador had become a prisoner in turn.

Most of Cazador’s recent poems became about the things he loathed about Dobrogost, yet by the end of every poem, it almost sounded as if he were infatuated with the man. In the start, he would rant and rave about every little mannerism that bothered him—even the tiniest of slights that he’d perceived as they traveled together, yet he would conclude with something oddly complimentary.

It was shocking to Cazador that Dobrogost was also part of the nobility, and yet he was brazenly boorish to an extent that even the impoverished might think he was raised in a barn. Aside from his aforementioned proclivities, Dobrogost was often horribly blunt and said whatever came to mind out loud, no matter how inappropriate at a given time, and it became an issue on more than one occasion in their journey thus far. Must he _really_ provoke tieflings who had moral standards he found disagreement with (usually, tieflings with any scruples at all were the ones he found disagreeable), or spark improper out-loud conversations with Astarion about bloodshed and gore while the leader of their party was attempting to negotiate with a local merchant? Cazador enjoyed violence as much as the next wicked person, but there was a time and a place for everything!

Even worse, Dobrogost would sometimes pick Cazador up in battle and _throw_ him at their enemies as if he were siccing a rabid animal upon them, much to Astarion’s amusement. (Cazador especially did not appreciate this when he was in the form of a bat—plucking him from the air and lobbing him at goblins or gnolls or any other manner of hostile creature did not “help” him in any way, regardless of the tiefling’s insistence that he was assisting him in combat.)

Also, perhaps not so important but definitely of _some_ value to Cazador, Dobrogost ate like a starving pig, and it was dreadful to have to watch it while they were at camp. His long beard was already hideously scraggly, and he only made it look _more_ unsightly by getting scraps stuck in it, which he’d comb out with his bare fingers, typically while in the middle of conversation with whomever so graciously pointed his disgraceful dishevelment out for him.

And none of this even covered all the disgusting jests about eating babies or pushing the elderly down flights of stairs for a laugh. Cazador was a monster, but even he had _standards_. He liked to think so, at least.

But despite all of that, Dobrogost was oddly charming. Sometimes. When he wanted to be. Usually by accident. Most of all, it was when he sang that he suddenly became much more tolerable. For a being descended from devils, he had the voice of an angel and his rich baritone-bordering-on-bass singing voice was enough to bring the dead back from the grave just to come and hear the enchanting melody. Quite literally, in fact, for when he sang, it often summoned the ghosts of those who’d passed away. Cazador wasn’t sure if, being undead himself, he was also ensorcelled by the tune, but it would awaken something within him and all of his bitterness towards the tiefling would temporarily subside.

_Oh, to be in love. Devil, why dost thou vex the soul so? Why must it be that such a knave should possess a song so beautiful? A song so gentle upon the ears, that it sends shivers through old bones that have not known peace in years._

It was maddening. Absolutely maddening.

He was enraged by Dobrogost, yet at the same time, he wanted to be moved by his song and possess him all at once. Unfortunately, the tiefling had the same idea in mind about possession, at least. Things always got complicated when two forces wanted to be dominant at the same time.

Cazador had slunk away from the rest of the group to try and write again in solitude while he had the chance to before dawn. He could have instead attempted to flee his captors, but there was no point; their wizards could easily divine his location, and they had done so the first time he’d tried. It was most fortuitous that Astarion had taken a fascination with someone in his group, otherwise he imagined his former spawn would do nothing but harass him. Though, it was possible that Astarion was merely trying to keep his little love interest “safe”. As if any living thing could be safe around a vampire, least of all a _true_ vampire.

The boy would eventually learn the magnitude of the power bestowed upon him. He may even discover the allure of having a coven of his own, entirely under his beck and call. Not that Cazador would permit him to go so far—he wasn’t _looking_ for a rival, but it was amusing nonetheless to think that Astarion might become even more of a hypocrite than he already was. Astarion always had some nerve believing that he was somehow ethically superior, when Cazador _knew_ that, if given the chance, Astarion would _gladly_ cast aside what little civility he may retain. 

As far as Cazador was concerned, the only reason Astarion hadn’t yet shown all of his true colors was not for a lack of trying, but because he hadn’t yet known what all he was capable of now. With any luck, he’d ruin himself in time through his own stupidity and brazenness. He might even come crawling back to his old master, begging for forgiveness and help. That would certainly be the day.

But it would be a pity for Cazador to squander his rare time alone contemplating the future of his former slave, if there was even much of a future to be had. Though just as he was about to dip the tip of his quill into the inkwell he had procured, someone loomed over him from where he sat.

“Dobrogost.” Cazador sighed when he looked up from his journal. “I wasn’t sneaking away. No more than a few feet from the rest of the camp,” he grumbled, peering back down at the paper to put down a few words that already came to mind.

Abruptly, the book was taken from him by the bard, and immediately flipped through with idle curiosity. Cazador leaped to his feet and reached for the journal, but it was held out of reach. Dobrogost was at least two feet taller than he was, and his portly-yet-muscular body twice as thick.

“Stop that! The ink is not yet dry! You’ll stain the pages!” Cazador snapped, jumping and lunging for the book. He _could_ try to get it by transforming into a bat, but he feared being caught by the wing in such powerful hands.

Fear. That was an emotion Cazador hadn’t felt in centuries, yet now he found himself intimidated by this fickle necromancer. Not helplessly so—it was more along the lines of frustrating. He could fight back easily, but to what extent would he be able to get away with self-defense when surrounded by enemies?

As Dobrogost read through the pages, his intrigued grin widened as he skimmed through Cazador’s innermost thoughts. “I’m used to having admirers and critics alike, but this is truly something else. I had no idea you thought so often of me.”

“Be silent, devil,” the vampire hissed, attempting to bite his hand, yet coming up short once again.

The tiefling seized him by the neck at first, then moved his hand to grasp his chin, running fingers through the well-groomed raven black beard. “No face so handsome should be so marred with a scowl so ugly, nor a tone so hard. It’s unfitting for the muse of a devilish bard,” he sang, lowering the vampire’s guard just a little.

“A muse, am I?” asked Cazador with an eyebrow raised, settling down once his journal was handed back to him.

“One of them,” Dobrogost relented, flicking his thick tail behind him, drawing the poet’s eyes to it with its jerking and sudden movements. “I have many fancies.”

Cazador’s lips twitched and his brow wrinkled slightly as he pondered the response.

The entertained smirk returned to the bard’s face. “Are you envious?”

“Hardly.”

Cazador watched with the attentiveness of a hawk as Dobrogost prowled around him to take measure of his true feelings. But the vampire would not concede them. He kept his expression as blank as possible.

“Hardly implies a small yes,” said Dobrogost, coming to a halt in his pacing.

“Then you misunderstand me,” said Cazador firmly.

“It’s true, but I wish to remedy that.”

“You keep saying that.”

“And you keep denying me that, Lord Szarr, despite your promise.”

Cazador had nearly forgotten that part of the agreement that saved his skin was that in exchange for being spared, Dobrogost wanted to “know” him. Whatever that meant. Cazador didn’t think he was serious; he had assumed that the man was playing games with him. The only games that Cazador enjoyed were the kind that were rigged in his favor and of his own design.

With a heavy sigh, the vampire laid the journal on the ground and placed his quill into the inkwell, then gave the tiefling his full attention. “What is it that you wish to know?”

Dobrogost hummed enthusiastically, steepling his hands together. “Who _is_ Cazador Szarr?”

The frown on the vampire’s face deepened. “That’s a little…vague of a question, but my family was most well-known for mercantile affairs and agriculture—”

“That’s not what I meant,” the bard interrupted.

Cazador was losing his patience, and he had little to spare to begin with. “Be more specific.”

As if suddenly enraptured by the man—perhaps it was the brooding expression—Dobrogost brushed the back of his finger along the edge of Cazador’s ear, then toyed with the ruby piercing in his earlobe with his claw. His hand was slapped away, though he seemed all the more excited by Cazador’s harsh rejection of his affections, for he was grinning ear-to-ear now.

“I sense a kindred spirit in you,” Dobrogost began, eyeing Cazador up and down. “I saw your handiwork at the cemetery. You enjoy being in power, don’t you? To have the world kneel before you.”

Cazador was only subconsciously aware of the fact that Dobrogost was coming closer to him, and that he himself was taking steps backwards. “It’s about having control. Order.” 

His back was pressed up against a tree, and the bard pinned him there with his hulking body. It was only then that Cazador took special notice that Dobrogost was very…warm. Maybe the tiefling’s infernal nature made his blood particularly hot when compared to other mortals. On the inside of his mouth, the vampire was licking the back of his sharp teeth at the thought alone.

“But you didn’t always have control, did you?” asked Dobrogost, canting his head to one side.

It was public knowledge that nearly all of the Szarr family had been murdered in their beds by one of their business rivals. Was that what he was referring to?

Cazador had enough of his games, and if the tiefling thought he was safe to strut around and provoke him as he pleased, he was about to be proven wrong. Baring his fangs, the vampire pounced on him, toppling him to the ground. Cazador crawled on top of his chest, lunging downward to snap at his neck. His fangs instead bit into the fur collar of Dobrogost’s long coat when the bard turned his head. Grimacing, Cazador spat the ball of fur that was ripped out and stuck in his mouth. That distraction gave Dobrogost a window of opportunity to punch him in the jaw and reverse their positions.

Now Cazador was being held to the ground, the tiefling’s hands clasped around his neck. If the poet hadn’t been undead, the applied force would have asphyxiated him. Infuriated and unable to bite his assailant, Cazador instead kneed him in the gut to render him breathless, then slipped away when Dobrogost turned onto his side, gripping his abdomen in pain.

Summoned by Cazador’s vampiric powers, a trio of wolves emerged from the brush, stalking towards the bard as he got to his feet. Though he strained to call forth his singing voice, Dobrogost managed to at least lure the spirit of a single bear with his song. It distracted two of the wolves, but the third darted around the bear’s swiping paw and jumped at the tiefling with its jaws open. The hound clamped down on his arm, and Dobrogost bit back a sound of agony.

Ripping the wolf from his arm, leaving deep gashes in his flesh and part of his sleeve missing, Dobrogost threw the creature in Cazador’s direction, but before impact was made, the vampire disappeared in a cloud of smoke that billowed away. The hound’s yelp resounded as it fell to the ground instead. Once he’d manifested again in his corporeal form, Cazador was positioned behind the tiefling, clinging to his neck with his arms and attempting to choke him out.

“You can’t possibly be mortal,” Cazador hissed as he squeezed tightly against the neck muscles that tensed to resist being crushed.

Dobrogost wheezed out a laugh, clutching one of the arms constricting his windpipe to loosen the grip. “Perhaps you’re getting weaker. You haven’t fed in a while, have you? Not properly, at any rate.” He coughed, gasping for air.

He was right. To keep him “manageable”, Cazador’s captors were purposely denying him access to any more blood than would barely sustain him, for the time being. It was Astarion’s suggestion, and little felt more embarrassing than being made to feed from the disgusting blood of animals when he’d spent so many years forcing his vampire spawn to do the same. Some nights, it was difficult to even stand under his own power, let alone use any of his innate abilities.

Cazador tried again to bite into the tiefling’s neck, but he was snatched by his shoulder length hair. He let out a maddened scream, more frustrated from the pain of hunger than of his hair being pulled on tightly. The smell of the blood dripping from Dobrogost’s arm was intoxicating, and the open wound was only a few inches away from his face. Desperate to taste it, Cazador extended his tongue as much as he could, sliding the tip across Dobrogost’s forearm, licking the blood that dribbled down. He’d exhausted nearly all his energy conjuring some of his vampiric power, and even a few drops of blood were welcome now. If only his teeth could reach the flesh…

Dobrogost laughed at his eagerness, finding it pathetic yet charming at the same time. Meanwhile, the bear spirit now had the wolves on the run, chasing them deeper into the forest with an intimidating roar. That left the bard free to focus his full attention on Cazador and his apparent need.

Chucking the vampire to the ground by his hair, Dobrogost placed his boot on the man’s chest, keeping him in place and hoping that he wasn’t about to try shapeshifting again. When Cazador squirmed, the boot pressed down harder into his ribs. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“You want this, don’t you?” Dobrogost pointed to his bleeding arm as little droplets continued to drip down, staining the poet’s tunic.

Cazador turned his head away, sulking. “I won’t beg.” 

He groaned when the bard’s shoe twisted against his chest and the burden increased. All it would take was for Dobrogost to put all of his weight into that one foot, and the whole ribcage would collapse like glass.

“I cannot hear you when you mumble. Speak up.”

The vampire focused his scarlet eyes on the tiefling’s, but for all his efforts, he had no luck with hypnotizing the man. He could barely even see straight now, for one. “If you’re going to kill me, then go ahead and do it. I won’t beg.”

“Your actions betray your words. You already have begged by whimpering like a dog and lapping at my arm.” Dobrogost positioned his arm directly over Cazador’s mouth and squeezed his forearm with his hand to wring out more of the blood. He reasoned that feeding Cazador remotely rather than directly from his veins should be safe enough to prevent the vampire curse from being contracted. “Drink.”

Despite the burning shame, Cazador opened his mouth, allowing the meager amount of blood to spill into it. He lapped up every drop that touched his lips, unable to help but sigh with relief. Even the bard’s blood was blackened by sin. The blood of purer souls was a delicacy for vampires, but the blood of evil creatures was very foul to match their tainted souls. Even still, it was better and more nourishing than anything that he’d gotten so far from the local wildlife. Although it was not enough for him to manifest any of his powers, it eased his lightheadedness.

“I need more than that,” Cazador demanded when the flow of blood stopped.

“Behave better, and I may give you more,” Dobrogost replied, examining his injured arm casually. He turned, about to leave, until Cazador grabbed him by the tail.

“Do as I command, or—”

“My, my,” the bard said when he turned back around and spotted something he hadn’t earlier. The sole of his boot gently nudged the hardened shaft that was faintly outlined in the fabric of Cazador’s black trousers, eliciting a moan from the poet. “It seems you’re just as excited to be dominated as you are to do the conquering.”

“That’s a _lie_.”

“Your body suggests otherwise.”

Cazador was about to utter some other explanation, but nothing he could think of would be any less humiliating to admit to. When Dobrogost laid beside him in the grass, Cazador shimmied away, but the tiefling dragged him near again, running a hand down the vampire’s thigh and cupping his groin through his trousers. It was impossible for Cazador not to lean into the touch as his manhood was cradled. He craved the warmth and hated himself for that.

“Vile pervert,” Cazador murmured, yet he bucked into the hand that fondled him, belying his hatred.

Dobrogost snorted, being surprisingly gentle but unrelenting with his caresses as he began to sing. “I sense that I’m not a man you trust, yet your journal reveals your rage-filled lust. How long has it been for you, I wonder? When was it you last had a willing lover? Shall I tie you up or tear you asunder, or might you be afraid of what I could uncover?”

Cazador cringed at the song. “You’re an awe-inspiring singer, but a terrible poet,” he declared.

The bard smiled. “It takes one to know one, I suppose.”

“How dare you? I’ll have you know that I’m quite renowned for my work all across the realms!”

“I only jest, my pet.”

“I am _not_ your pet.”

“Not yet, not yet!” Dobrogost replied in a cheeky singsong voice.

“I should muzzle you, tiefling,” Cazador said sourly.

“A fine suggestion!” Picking up from the ground the section of his sleeve that had been torn off, Dobrogost ripped it further until it was a long enough section of cloth to tie around the vampire’s mouth. Cazador made noises of protest, but it was his fault for giving him the idea in the first place. “There. No more biting. Not for you, anyway.”

Dobrogost leaned down and sank his own carnivorous teeth into the side of Cazador’s neck simply to taunt him. Cazador’s gasp was muffled by the cloth, and his body writhed. The bard’s oppressive size made it difficult for the poet to bring his hands to his own face, and thus he couldn’t untie the uncomfortable gag that imprisoned his yearning fangs. 

Even worse, Cazador’s erection was becoming painfully tight as the strings below the collar of his black shirt were loosened further to give the tiefling access to his collarbone, where more nipping kisses were placed. Dobrogost’s beard tickled his exposed skin. Cazador didn’t even know that his cold, deadened body could still feel sensations like that. The bard was right: There were some things about himself that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be made known. To himself, nor anyone else. But he wanted more.

Cazador made a pathetic whine despite himself as he arched into the nibbling teeth that assaulted his chest as the open collar of the shirt was stretched downward. He instantly missed the feeling of the love bites on his skin when Dobrogost sat up to hastily unfasten the vampire’s tunic and pull the shirt over his head to leave him completely bare-chested. Dobrogost then threw off his own coat, and he was about to remove his shirt until Cazador reached for the gag around his mouth. The bard seized his arms and restrained them above his head against the ground, then bent over again to “punish” him with harder bites that made Cazador chuckle as if he’d planned for this to happen. Even when bound, he knew how to manipulate people into doing what he wanted them to.

_Sickening creature, with all thine blight. Inspiring within me morbid delight. How loathsome art thee for what thou hast done, igniting my body like the harsh morning sun…_

Cazador hadn’t noticed before he felt it flick across his nipple that Dobrogost’s tongue was split into a forked shape. There was no telling if it was done as a cosmetic procedure, or if the appendage was naturally that way, but regardless, it felt delightful against the tightening pink bud. Pointed teeth grazed against the sensitive flesh, but only enough to tantalize, not to pierce. So, the tiefling _could_ be a gentle lover, after all. But Cazador didn’t want gentle. Not now, anyway.

The disgraced vampire lord wrapped his legs around the bard’s waist and dug the heels of his boots into the man’s lower back as he ground his groin against the overhanging gut of the husky tiefling, making it clear that he demanded more attention than he was being given.

_Spoil me, you fool,_ the poet thought irritably, hoping that his unexpected lover was at least intelligent enough to get the idea.

Dobrogost’s lips made a wet kissing sound when he finally parted from Cazador’s nipple. “So impatient,” he said with a smirk, stroking the vampire’s leg with his free hand. “What might Astarion think if he were to see you so desperate like this?”

Cazador’s glare became severe, and the tiefling chortled. “Not to worry, little bat. Your secret is safe with me,” Dobrogost promised while tugging down the front of the poet’s trousers with a claw, liberating the pale throbbing length. His fingertips traced the dark purple veins along the shaft, and Cazador shuddered at the delicate touch. 

Apparently, it had been so long that he’d been made to feel this way that a bead of cool precum was already rolling down the tip of the vampire’s twitching prick.

_Stop teasing me_. _And stop looking so entertained by this. It means nothing. Get on with it and service me already, imbecile. It’s all you’re good for. That and your singing._

Cazador was resenting the gag more and more, as it left him incapable of barking these orders running through his mind at the tiefling. Although, it tormented him to know that he was only in denial of the fact that he _needed_ to be touched like this. Having people under one’s command was riveting, but for someone to show earnest affection, even if there was some self-servicing motivation behind it, was a thrill that couldn’t be imitated. It was rare and precious, and most importantly of all, it reminded him of his now absent mortality.

_Give yourself to me. I wish to remember what it was like to feel whole again, if you can even grant me such a thing._

Seeing the passion in the vampire’s red eyes, Dobrogost removed the thick string from Cazador’s discarded shirt and utilized it to tie the poet’s arms behind his back. It didn’t go ignored that the effort was met with what seemed like cooperation. 

“You’re not going to fight me?” the tiefling asked with slight suspicion, but Cazador didn’t answer and instead continued to stare at him expectantly. Dobrogost knew that something was amiss here, as he hadn’t known Cazador to go along with things so easily thus far, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity to finally have his way with the handsome man pass him by.

The bard yanked off Cazador’s boots, then his pants, leaving the vampire completely naked on the grass. It was mildly amusing that the poet didn’t appear any less proud, nor acknowledge any vulnerability in this position. Dobrogost spread open the man’s thighs…and Cazador shut them tightly. The tiefling frowned, giving the poet a questioning expression as he pulled apart the vampire’s legs again, only for them to be closed a second time.

Dobrogost sighed. “I’m not going to enter you dry, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Calm yourself.”

There was some hesitation as Cazador’s thighs wobbled, then moved apart on their own. He remained cautious, watching the tiefling carefully for any betrayal of his trust.

The bard pulled a small vial out of his trouser pocket as he began to finish undressing himself. “This fell out of Astarion’s pack the other night. I thought it might be poison at first, but I was quite tickled when I realized what it actually was. I imagine he’s been doing more than just fawning over that little plaything of his.”

Cazador huffed at the suggestion through his gag.

“Don’t be jealous, little bat.” With his clothing dropped into a pile, Dobrogost uncorked the vial and spread a good bit of the lubricant inside of it along his half-erect length. “I’ll keep you company.” He squeezed himself tightly as he pumped his fist up and down the shaft, making sure that Cazador had full view of his impressive manhood.

_Yes, yes, I see it, you showoff._

Dobrogost hadn’t expected the vampire to nudge his hand away with his toes and start stroking the sizable cock between his bare feet, but the bard wasn’t objecting at all. “Ahah! And here I thought you were a prude, Lord Szarr! Mmm… You are a man of many talents indeed!”

_Oh, be quiet, you overstuffed peacock. I never imagined I’d meet someone more boisterous than Astarion, nor more bothersome…_

Once the tiefling was at full mast, Cazador’s slickened feet were planted into the ground so that he could bend his back with his legs spread wide.

_Go on. We’ve only got a few hours before sunrise, and I’m not going to burn to ash because of your stupidity._

Cackling enthusiastically, Dobrogost poured the rest of the lubricant onto his finger, which he pressed to Cazador’s entrance. The prospect of a claw going anywhere near there understandably alarmed the poet, who promptly kicked the tiefling square in the chest with full force, sending him tumbling backwards.

For a moment, Dobrogost easily could have thought he’d been bucked by a frightened horse. He rubbed his chest, drawing air back into his emptied lungs with a pained gasp. “That wasn’t necessary,” he croaked, getting back on his knees, and crawling onto his lover cautiously.

Positioning the tip of his cock against Cazador’s hole, the bard slid inside slowly, minding his massive girth that stretched the tight entrance wider than what the vampire was accustomed to. Dobrogost wasn’t usually so careful with his partners, but he had a certain respect for this one. Cazador was someone whom he might want to do this with again, and for that to happen, he would have to keep the poet’s body intact. Granted, necromancy could probably mend any damage caused, but it wouldn’t repair broken faith.

“You’re the first person like myself that I’ve met in Baldur’s Gate,” said Dobrogost in between grunts as he penetrated the man below him with slow thrusts, propping Cazador’s ankles upon his shoulders while holding onto the vampire’s smooth legs. “Most people there are so…boring. Too kind-hearted—even the so-called crooks and deviants in the shadier parts of the city. You’re something else, though.”

When Cazador tried to speak, but was prevented from forming any coherent words, it reminded Dobrogost that he’d gagged him. Cazador seemed calm enough now to have it removed, and the bard decided to shift the fabric down to his chin.

“I could say the same of you,” said Cazador with a low purr, clenching his muscles around the intrusion that slid in and out of him. “You know, I had considered turning you into one of my vampire spawns. It would be a fun challenge, breaking someone like you.” He twisted his hips, guiding the bard to his prostate when the blood-engorged length came near to that area, then let out a content moan as the large head brushed against it. “But it would be a waste. You’re far more enjoyable with a will of your own.”

The movements of Dobrogost’s body slowed as he processed the confession. “I thought you found me repulsive.”

Cazador closed his eyes, taking the lead in controlling his own pleasure when the tiefling became distracted. It took a great deal of fortitude and steady concentration to handle all of the bard’s girth, but he was confident that he could manage. Besides, Cazador liked a little pain.

“I do,” he eventually answered. “That’s what excites me about you. You’re utterly shameless in how much of a fiend you are. Now make yourself useful and touch me, darling.”

Dobrogost grinned as he used the hand still marginally wet with lubricant to jerk the vampire’s cock for him. “Like this?”

A glowing smile appeared on Cazador’s lips. His back curved and he growled serenely. “Use that devilish tail of yours,” he ordered. “I want your hands free to caress me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look genuinely happy before,” Dobrogost mentioned, sliding his palms past Cazador’s waist and up to his chest while his tail curled around the vampire’s length instead, constricting it like a snake and tugging the erection.

“Mmnh…I didn’t _ask_ for your commentary,” said Cazador, persistent about keeping up _some_ emotional barrier between himself and the tiefling. “If you must wag your tongue, serenade me instead.”

“I hope that you appreciate how I’ve humored you as much as I have thus far. Typically, I crush the heads of those who make demands of me.” Dobrogost gnawed at the vampire’s ankle playfully, and the same foot batted at his horn. “See? It is that feisty nature that I like about you.”

“Sing.”

The bard cleared his throat. “There once was a man in—” He was kicked in the face this time, and he laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll be serious.”

“You’d better be.”

The tiefling stroked his beard as he contemplated a new song, and as soon as something came to him, he attempted again:

_“What is it you wish for me to sing? A love song, perhaps, my lithe evil king?_

_By sight, I would say that your lips look divine, though I know of their truth—they should stay far from mine._

_As much as I yearn for their sweet tender touch, a single peck would be too much!_

_Surely, those fangs would come right out. You may deny this, but I’ve little doubt._

_The taste of your tongue could bring me great bliss, but I don’t think I’d chance a fateful kiss._

_A vampire’s nature is capricious and strange._

_I might be as well, though I’d rather keep range.”_

Cazador’s face wrinkled with offense taken. “You call that a love song?”

“What sort of love song might you expect a mortal to sing to a vampire?” Dobrogost asked teasingly.

“One that’s a little less insulting.”

“I thought it was complimentary, personally.”

“So, you won’t kiss me, then? Not even once?” Cazador tilted his head inquisitively.

Dobrogost’s fingers danced across the man’s chest. “I may be falling for you, but I’m _not_ falling for that.”

“I demand that you kiss me.” The thought hadn’t even crossed Cazador’s mind until the subject was brought up, but now that it had been, he was determined to get what he wanted.

“No,” the bard said bluntly.

The string keeping Cazador’s hands bound together snapped, and he spun the both of them over, arranging himself on top of the tiefling. He kept riding the large cock buried deep inside him, grinding into it harder, then lowered his face to Dobrogost’s. He ripped the makeshift gag from his face entirely and tugged on the bard’s long beard to force his mouth to open, pushing his tongue inside his lover’s parted lips. 

Though he thought about it intently, Cazador never bit him the entire time their tongues mingled. The faint taste of the tiefling’s fear as he awaited the moment that ultimately didn’t come was delicious in its own way.

Holding onto the bard’s horns, the poet rocked back and forth between the length penetrating him and the tail wrapped around his manhood, retreating from the kiss to hiss softly at the overwhelming stimulation from both ends of his nether regions. Dobrogost ran his hands up the vampire’s back, then dragged his claws down to his backside to express his own zeal. 

Gasping ecstatically, Cazador reached underneath his partner and did the same with his blunter fingernails, and yet he caused just as much damage with the animalistic force he applied to the infernal man’s light red skin. It was easy for one to forget that the vampire was stronger than he seemed at first glance, even without much blood to fuel his preternatural power. Cazador brought his bloodied fingers to his face, licking the coppery substance that stained them.

_Awful. Horrid. Putrid. Delectable._

Unable to contain himself, Cazador exposed his fangs fully, and Dobrogost knew to hold him back by the throat. The tiefling’s opposite hand firmly gripped the poet’s hip, however, as he was tenacious when it came to sex, and even the looming threat of his partner for the night attempting to murder him wouldn’t deter his lust. He continued pumping the ravenous man up and down on his stiff prick, ignoring all the blood that was shed from every scratch Cazador assailed him with across his face, his arms, and his chest.

When Dobrogost fantasized about bedding Cazador, he didn’t exactly picture it being akin to fucking a pissed-off cat, but this was fine, too. It was mildly sexy, in a peculiar way.

After each of them had reached their climax, they both settled down and Cazador now laid limply against Dobrogost’s body, while the tiefling’s chest heaved exasperatedly and his arms held the vampire close to him. Only now were they slowly becoming aware of how their encounter had progressed. The night had certainly started very differently than it ended, and the aftermath was rather…awkward, particularly for Cazador.

“I can’t believe that I let you do that,” the poet muttered, disappointed with himself.

Dobrogost blinked. “ _Let_ me?”

“Of course,” Cazador spat, raising his head to glare at the tiefling cantankerously. “Initially, it was all a ploy to get you to feed me, but instead I… Eugh…” He propped his head up against his arm, embedding his elbow in the tiefling’s chest. “Clean me up, help me get dressed, and take me back to your tent.”

Cazador’s bold demands would have infuriated the bard if they came from anyone else, but Dobrogost was instead more intrigued by the last task listed off. “ _My_ tent?”

“Yes, _your_ tent,” was the grumbled reply. “The night is cold, and so am I. But _you’re_ warm enough. Oh, and gather my journal, my inkwell, and my quill. I don’t want them ruined by the morning dew when the sun comes up.”

Dobrogost snickered and slapped Cazador on the rear, earning him a scowl from the fussy poet. “Very well, little bat. But next time, I make the demands.”

Cazador dismounted from the tiefling and stood with an arrogant posture that he hardly was entitled to after what he’d gotten up to and with whom he’d decided to do it all with. “We’ll see…”

**Author's Note:**

> "I'll ask politely: Give me what I want. Make me behave like an animal."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Animal by Sir Chloe


End file.
